Taming the Beast: Charles Manson's Life Behind Bars (16 page)

Ironically, it was
Boys Town
graduate Mickey Rooney who had the problem. Kramer was doing takes in the west block exercise yard while tough guy Rooney milled around among some low-security convicts standing by the cameraman. The gooner squad was providing tight security, so everything seemed cool. Unbeknownst to anyone, an African American inmate stealthily worked his way behind a security officer standing near the tripod. The inmate removed a prison-made shank from his belt, whispered, “This is for the brothers,” and jumped the officer, stabbing him in the back. Rooney, standing right there when it happened, leaped like a prize jumping frog.

The stabbed officer swung around and knocked down his assailant, who was immediately subdued by the gooners. The injured officer was rushed to the hospital and survived. A subsequent investigation revealed that the attack was revenge for the beating given to a couple of Black Guerrilla Family members during their trip to death row. The Guerrillas had killed a guard at their previous prison, and the good guys were enacting a little vengeance.

I hated that kind of back-and-forth violence because no one ever won. The officer who was stabbed wasn’t one of the gooners who had beaten the inmates—the victims rarely are. Time and again, correctional officers are maimed and killed because of the actions of someone else.

That weekend, Beth and I had dinner with some friends. Afterward, we planned to go to the Geary Theater in San Francisco to see a musical. The dinner conversation touched upon the death row hunger strike, which was in its twelfth day. Our friends expressed the feeling common among outsiders: “Let them starve. It’s death row, isn’t it? Saves everybody the trouble.”

On the drive to the theater, I heard a radio bulletin that rocked me. Someone had hijacked an entire school bus full of children in Chowchilla, a small farm town south of Fresno. I was certain it was one of Manson’s clan. The perpetrators were probably phoning the prison at that moment threatening to kill a child every hour until Manson was released. I didn’t share my fears with Beth and our guests, but I was in a fog the rest of the night. I don’t remember a thing about the musical.

Beth noticed my sudden mood change, but didn’t say anything until we were on our way home. I tried to duck the question a few times, then finally relented. “It’s that damn school bus thing,” I sighed.

“That’s terrible, but why are you taking it so personally?”

“I don’t know. It might be one of our crazies,” I downplayed, not specifying which crazy.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m damn serious. Some of my guys are capable of changing history, killing presidents, hijacking airliners.”

“That’s absurd.”

Sometimes, my wife’s sugarplum attitude got under my skin, but I was smart enough to realize it was also what I loved about her. Beth knew that being around prisons had hardened me and made me pessimistic, so she countered it by being cheery and optimistic. Plus, she could never really understand my angst because I’d hidden most of the horrors of my job from her. This evening, I found myself opening up a bit.

“A few weeks ago, there was a report that a group of revolutionaries were planning to kidnap a busload of kids from the Folsom area to force the release of an inmate named ‘Geronimo,’ a Black Panther serving time for murder,”
1
I said, laying it off on another group. “The plan was to take the kids of the officers so the prison officials would be doubly motivated to negotiate. Because of the report, ‘Geronimo’ was transferred to the San Quentin AC. He’s now on my block. That’s why I’m a little concerned.”

“It’s hard to believe anyone would use little children.”

‘You know, I never talk much about these guys, but there’s a few ruthless bastards in this world who’ll stoop to anything. They’d take our kids if they knew where to find them.”

The minute I said that I knew I’d made a mistake. I wanted Beth to know why I was worried, not scare her to death. Mentioning our own kids knocked the optimism right out of her. She remained silent the rest of the way home.

That Monday, there was still no word from the people holding the children. I knew, however, it could come at any time, so I remained in knots. To complicate matters, I was set to have a sit-down—literally—with the leaders of the striking inmates to see if we could resolve the issue. The cons had selected me for the job because the word around the yard was that I wasn’t a hard-ass and could be trusted. That was true. I could be trusted, but they sure as hell couldn’t! Before going on the row to meet with them man-to-murderer, I left specific instructions with the guards. “If the inmates try to take me hostage, don’t be afraid to shoot. I’d rather be shot by somebody trying to save me than get hacked to death bit by bit by those thugs.”

I waltzed in, sat on the floor surrounded by seven condemned men, and promptly worked out a deal. The row would get a television set, a Ping-Pong table, three hot meals a day (accomplished by adding soup to their lunch sandwich), more diligent medical care, better access to law books (so the inmates could sue the state easier), legal visits among inmates to help one another with cases (translation: have sex), a stool for each cell (probably to carve into weapons), a public telephone on the row (to plan their escapes), and dry cleaning (in case they needed their tux pressed for a night out at the Ritz). The demands I denied were weight lifting equipment (too dangerous); community, out-of-cell exercise periods (with Richard Simmons maybe?); weekly movies (too costly); ice cream (nice try); cable TV (too complicated); and conjugal visits (not appropriate for condemned men).

We shook hands, and that was the end of the silly strike. Back in my office, as I was accepting congratulations, I heard that the creeps responsible for taking the school bus (and burying the damn thing underground with the children inside) had been caught and arrested, and the children had been rescued. It turned out they were not involved with either “Geronimo” or Manson. The whole thing was financially motivated.

Charlie missed out on the publicity wave surrounding that one, but he was hardly cast aside by the fickle press. Lynette’s assassination attempt had thrust him into the limelight again, and a new prison policy would enable him to take tremendous advantage of it. After decades of restricting the media from entering prison lockups and interviewing notorious criminals, the policy was abruptly changed. If an inmate consented and signed a waiver, he could be interviewed once every ninety days. Beautiful. If there was one prisoner in the whole world that the media wanted, it was my buddy Charlie. The avalanche of requests began the instant the policy change was announced. Reporters wrote from all over the United States, as well as Britain, Europe, and Asia. That gave me a whole new job description—Charles Manson’s press agent.

Charlie was thrilled by the attention and the power it gave him. He could sit like a king in his cell and give the thumbs-up, thumbs-down treatment to the most famous journalists and television broadcasters in the country. He was in heaven. He was also pretty shrewd. Instead of starting with some national media superstar like Mike Wallace of
60 Minutes
or Dan Rather of CBS—both of whom made pitches—he selected a local TV anchor from small-market Sacramento. Manson viewed it as a test run, a chance to rehearse his latest show off Broadway. The anchor, Stan Atkinson, was thrilled at having hit the Manson lottery and rushed over with his crew in early January 1976. We selected an upstairs property room for the historic event, and had the TV folks set up their lights, cameras, and sound. Manson was housed two floors down, on the first-floor south side of the AC with the rest of the HVP (high violence potential) inmates. The rule was that HVP cons couldn’t be moved without restraints, and the cuffs stayed on until the inmate returned to his cell. After the officers cuffed Manson to prepare him for the journey upstairs, he refused to budge.

“I’m not going to any fuckin’ interview with handcuffs on,” he announced. I’d already cleared it so he could have the cuffs removed during the actual interview, so Manson’s hissy fit pissed me off. The transporting officers didn’t give a shit about Manson’s PR and stood firm, refusing to remove the hardware. Naturally, I got the job of trying to break the stalemate. Storming downstairs, I spotted Charlie standing like a frail street beggar between two gargantuan officers. The moment I looked into his beady eyes I could see he was playing his mind games. I felt like canceling the interview, but knew how excited Atkinson was and how crushed he’d be if Manson didn’t come through. I pulled the sergeant aside.

“Do you see any problem with moving him without the irons?”

“No problem,” the sergeant responded. It was a macho thing with them, so I figured the answer would be positive. I walked back to the cell and spoke loud enough for the surrounding inmates to hear. “You can move him upstairs without cuffs, but watch the little bastard. If he tries anything, knock him on his ass and lock him up.”

“Yes sir!” the gooners answered.

Charlie shot me his best shit-eating smile. To him, it was a great victory. He’d beaten the system!

The interview went off without a hitch. Charlie played the terrifying cult leader, and Atkinson recorded enough video to milk it into a three-part series. After the report aired, the requests began coming in by the bagful. Since Manson had selected a small-market station, every one-bulb television outfit and two-typewriter newspaper in the country tried to get in on the action.

A couple of weeks after the interview, Charlie was moved to the second floor, where he was reunited with his good pal Pin Cushion. I allowed Pin to help me with Manson’s mail, and he jumped at the opportunity to become Manson’s assistant media agent. Instead of filtering through the requests, Pin decided to take the bull by the horns. He began writing the big networks and magazines offering special arrangements. The problem was, Pin was selling the interviews! To my shock, he said he’d worked out a $100,000 deal with CBS for an eight-hour taped interview. After all Pin’s work, Manson turned it down, choosing instead to chat with a reporter from
The National Enquirer
for free. Pin went nuts, thinking Manson had lost his mind and betrayed him. I had to calm him by explaining that Manson was no fool. He knew that inmates can’t profit from their crimes by selling interviews, so the money was moot. He’d selected another non-traditional media outlet to further his master plan of working up to bigger scores. Pin ended up getting the last laugh, as the
Enquirer
interview hit a snag and was delayed.

Rebuffed by the $100,000 letdown, Pin Cushion traded his agent efforts for a new position as Manson’s tailor. Because the AC is a lockup, my inmates got the worst of everything. The clothing was especially bad, usually ill-fitting, full of holes, and missing buttons. On the mainline, the cons switched garments themselves by going to a window and hassling a clerk. If they were given junk, they could bitch until they got something better. In AC, the men had to take what was delivered. Knowing that my guys couldn’t complain, the clothing staff always sent us their rags.

With Manson being a TV star, Pin felt he deserved better. Using the trustee status I’d given him, and the free movement the designation afforded, Pin went on a raid. The fast-talking con was an expert in what is known as “bogarting.” That’s when an inmate affects a certain tough guy swagger, like Humphrey Bogart, to convince the guards that he has the authority to do whatever it is he’s trying to do. In this manner, Pin conned an officer into helping him unlock doors by claiming that there was a “clothing emergency” on the block. The inmates, Pin explained, were ready to riot, and I’d responded by ordering him to get everyone new threads. Not only was the officer convinced, he helped Pin do the job! The pair took a dolly and picked through the clothing stocks, bringing back decent uniforms for Manson and his neighbors. After that, Pin began running similar missions to get anything else Manson and the guys needed, cutting through the red tape and the “you guys are last on the list” roadblock we always encountered. Pin even helped me acquire critical office materials. For the most part, I let him get away with it because the prison’s policy was unfair, and “Roger’s Raids,” as they were called, boosted morale on the wing.

I had to temper his activities, however, after he promised to secure a typewriter and came back with five—including one from the chaplain’s office.

“You stole from the chaplain?” I exclaimed.

“Don’t worry, boss. It was the Protestant! You didn’t think I’d take one from Father O’Neal?” That didn’t excuse his behavior, but I couldn’t help laughing. “Besides,” he added, “the Protestant chaplain doesn’t keep material things.”

“You’re gonna get me arrested, Pin.”

“I’ll pick out a nice cell for you. You can room with Charlie!”

“Don’t even joke about that.”

A few days later, the wing was rocked by the news than an inmate was lying buck naked in the yard sunbathing. I figured it was a scam of some kind, but sure enough, there he was, resting on a towel, trying to seduce some young punk by displaying his impressive equipment to the world. In his hand was a
Playboy
magazine, which he was using to help in his advertising campaign. I looked closer. It was Pin!

“Damn it,” I wailed. “That crazy bastard’s going to get me canned!”

I started to open the window, then was struck by a thought. I raced to Manson’s cell, suspicious that the pair were up to something. Was Pin creating a diversion so his pal Manson could escape?

“What the fuck do you want?” Manson growled. I could tell by his calm demeanor that nothing was going on. This was obviously one of Pin’s solo flights. Back at the window, I leaned my head out. “Roger, what the hell are you doing?” Pin, whose nickname suddenly seemed all wrong, casually rolled his eyes from the magazine.

“Just getting a little sunshine, boss.”

“For goodness’ sake, Roger, get your clothes on or I’m locking your ass up!”

Pin rose slowly, acting insulted by my intolerance. “It’s no big deal, boss. I’m so white from all that cell time. I need a little tan.” Pin pulled on his undershorts, then followed with his prison blues. He left his shirt off. “This okay, boss?”